Chapter 5: The Storm Lords' Bargain
The great hall of Storm's End was thick with unspoken apprehension. Dozens of Storm Lords, great and minor, stood assembled, their colourful banners hanging limp in the still air, a stark contrast to the disciplined, almost menacing order that had greeted them. They were warriors, proud men used to a certain degree of autonomy under their young, often absent Lord Paramount. The figure before them, however, radiated an intensity that was entirely new. Robert Baratheon had always been a force of nature, but this was different – a controlled, calculating power, like a storm deliberately gathering its strength before an inevitable, devastating strike.
Robar let his gaze linger on each of them, his Observation Haki subtly tasting their moods: the bluster of Bryce Caron, the quiet apprehension of Eldon Estermont, the noble unease of Beric Dondarrion, the avaricious curiosity glinting in the eyes of some lesser lords. Assets and liabilities, all of them. He had their attention.
"My lords," Robar began again, his voice resonating with a power that seemed to press down on them. "You have seen the preparations within Storm's End. This is not a game. Aerys Targaryen has declared war upon us all by his actions. He has murdered the Lord Paramount of the North and his heir. He has demanded my head, and that of Lord Eddard Stark. His madness and tyranny threaten every House in this realm, not least our own ancient Houses of the Stormlands. To bend the knee is to offer our necks to his axe and our lands to his depredations."
He paused, letting the stark reality of their situation settle. "There is only one path forward: the utter dismantling of Aerys's power. We will not merely defend our homes. We will march, we will conquer, and we will secure a future where no Storm Lord need fear the whims of a deranged monarch."
Lord Eldon Estermont, his grand-uncle, a man of considerable years and influence, stepped forward. "Robert, nephew… your words are strong, and your grief for House Stark is shared. But to speak of conquering… Aerys has the Crownlands, the Royal Fleet. The Tyrells will surely stand with him. Dorne is bound by marriage. This is a war against the Iron Throne itself."
Robar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Lord Estermont speaks of challenges. I speak of opportunities." He gestured to Stannis, who stepped forward, holding a thick ledger. "My brother, Lord Stannis, has been conducting a thorough audit of our immediate resources. We are not as unprepared as some might believe. Storm's End itself is provisioned for a lengthy conflict. Our armories are being filled, our men are being drilled to a standard unseen in a generation."
He then addressed the core of his plan. "This war will require a united front and a centralized command. From this day, all Stormlander forces will operate under a single strategic direction: mine. Recruitment, training, deployment – all will be standardized. Maester Cressen," he nodded to the maester, "is already preparing new tactical manuals, based on methods that will ensure swift victories and minimize our losses." Those "methods," of course, were a blend of his own ruthless pragmatism and half-remembered military doctrines from his past life, adapted for medieval warfare.
A murmur went through the assembled lords. This was a significant departure from feudal tradition, where lords often led their own men with considerable autonomy.
Bryce Caron, ever blunt, spoke up. "Centralized command, Lord Robert? We are not household guards to be ordered about like recruits. We are lords, leading our own sworn men!"
Robar turned his gaze upon Caron, a gaze that made the fiery lord instinctively straighten. "And those sworn men, Lord Caron, will die needlessly if they are thrown into battle piecemeal, without coordination or proper support. Do you wish for glory, or for victory? I intend to deliver the latter. And with victory comes spoils far exceeding any glory won in a futile, honorable defeat."
He saw greed flicker in some eyes, unease in others. Good. He was playing on their core motivations.
"To fund this endeavor," Robar continued, his voice smooth and persuasive, "I am restructuring the financing of our war effort. Henceforth, all traditional feudal levies will be supplemented by a direct contribution to a central war chest, managed by what I am calling Baratheon Consolidated Resources." He saw Stannis almost imperceptibly approve of the formal-sounding name. "BCR will ensure transparent allocation of funds, efficient procurement of supplies, and fair compensation for services rendered."
He then unveiled his masterstroke. "Furthermore, BCR is issuing Baratheon War Bonds. For those lords who wish to contribute beyond their required levies, these bonds offer a unique investment opportunity. Invest your gold now, and you will receive a handsome return, with interest, from the spoils of war – primarily from confiscated Targaryen assets and newly acquired Crownlands. The greater our victory, the greater your profit."
This was revolutionary. War as a speculative investment. Some lords looked scandalized, particularly Beric Dondarrion, whose sense of honor seemed visibly offended. Others, however, leaned forward, their eyes calculating. Old Lord Penrose, Ser Cortnay's father, known for his parsimony, actually stroked his chin with interest.
"This is… unorthodox, my lord," said Lord Swann, a cautious man. "To treat war as… as a business venture?"
"War is a business, Lord Swann," Robar countered, his voice hardening. "A bloody, expensive business. And I intend for House Baratheon and its loyal bannermen to be on the profitable side of the ledger. Those who invest in our success will share in it. Those who merely meet their obligations will receive the protection and stability our victory brings. Those who waver…" he let his gaze sweep the hall, "…will find themselves on the wrong side of history, and the wrong side of my account books." The threat, though veiled in financial terms, was unmistakable.
He then addressed their immediate commitments. "Stannis has prepared scrolls detailing the expected contributions of men and materiel from each of your Houses, based on your lands, traditional strength, and current capacity." Stannis, with grim satisfaction, began to unroll a large parchment. "BCR officials, accompanied by a detachment of my household guard, will visit each of your keeps within the fortnight to… assist in the assessment and facilitate the transfer of resources. Consider it an audit for the collective security and prosperity of the Stormlands."
The phrase "assist in the assessment" sounded remarkably like "ensure compliance under armed watch." The presence of Robar's increasingly formidable household guard was not lost on them.
Lord Selmy of Harvest Hall, uncle to the famed Ser Barristan, spoke, his voice troubled. "My lord, this is a significant departure. We have always answered the call of our Paramount, but to have our very keeps inspected, our contributions dictated so precisely…"
"The times are unprecedented, Lord Selmy," Robar cut him off smoothly. "And require unprecedented measures. Aerys Targaryen does not play by the old rules. Neither shall we, if we intend to win. My methods may be new, but they are designed for one purpose: to forge the Stormlands into an unbreakable spear, a Stormblade that will shatter our enemies. Those who are part of that spear will be strong. Those who resist its forging will be broken."
He could feel the tension in the room, a mixture of fear, resentment, and grudging acceptance. He knew he was pushing them, hard. But he also knew that strength respected strength. He was offering them a path to victory, and, for the more pragmatic among them, a path to profit.
He decided it was time for a demonstration, not of his brute Gura Gura power, but of the sheer force of his will, the chilling aura of his Haki. He focused, drawing on that inner strength, and let a measure of his Conqueror's Haki bleed into his presence. It wasn't an overt blast, not enough to make men faint, but a palpable wave of pressure, of indomitable will, that settled over the hall. The candles seemed to flicker. The lords shifted uncomfortably. Even the most recalcitrant among them felt a sudden, primal urge to submit, a chilling certainty that this new Robert Baratheon was not a man to be trifled with.
"You will swear new oaths," Robar commanded, his voice now imbued with that subtle, terrifying power. "Not just to House Baratheon. But to me. To my command. To the war effort as I direct it. You will swear to contribute your share, to follow my orders, and to stand united against our common foe."
He held their gazes, daring any to refuse. One by one, starting with a somewhat shaken Bryce Caron, then his grand-uncle Eldon Estermont, who sighed but saw the inevitability, the Storm Lords stepped forward. They knelt, some grudgingly, some with a newfound fear, and swore their oaths. Beric Dondarrion was among the last, his handsome face troubled, but even he bent the knee, perhaps seeing no other path to protecting his people.
As each lord rose, Stannis would present them with their specific levy requirements and a prospectus for the War Bonds, his expression daring them to find fault with his meticulous calculations. Most signed for the bonds, some with enthusiasm, others with a sense of making the best of a situation they couldn't control. The allure of profit, Robar noted with grim satisfaction, was a powerful motivator, even for honorable men.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the great hall, the Stormlands were, effectively, his. Not just as their feudal overlord, but as the chief executive of a newly consolidated military and economic bloc. The lords departed in a far more subdued mood than they had arrived, contemplating the new order that had been ruthlessly imposed upon them.
Robar watched them go, a cold sense of triumph settling within him. The first phase of his regional consolidation was complete. He had secured his primary resource base. Now, it was time to mobilize it, to turn the Stormlands into a ruthlessly efficient war machine, a profitable enterprise that would serve as the springboard for his ambitions.
He turned to Stannis. "Ensure the BCR auditors are dispatched tomorrow at dawn. With sufficient guards. I want those initial contributions flowing into our coffers within the week."
Stannis nodded, a glint of something akin to approval in his usually stern eyes. "It will be done, Robert. The lords understand your… seriousness."
"Good," Robar said. He looked out through the high windows of the hall towards the turbulent sea. The storm was indeed gathering. And he was its eye, its directing intelligence. "The Baratheon Stag has always been a symbol of fury. Now, it will also be a symbol of profit."
His mind was already leaping ahead, to the organization of his new army, to the first strategic objectives in the coming war, and to the countless ways he would turn the chaos of rebellion into a mountain of gold.